


Once I Was

by Anaross



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Amnesia, F/M, Football | Soccer, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:53:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaross/pseuds/Anaross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy is suffering from "selective amnesia". The one thing she's selected to forget? Spike. But that doesn't mean she doesn't like what she sees when they run into each other at the World Cup.</p><p>Two years Post-NFA, which puts it right...NOW! Or, rather, in 2006. It starts in Stuttgart at the World Cup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is unfinished and likely to remain so, as I ran out of enthusiasm after the World Cup was over and England had lost.
> 
> Joss is God and sole owner and proprietor. I'm just channeling.

_Once I was a soldier_   
_And I fought on foreign sands for you_   
_Once I was a hunter_   
_And I brought home fresh meat for you_   
_Once I was a lover_   
_And I searched behind your eyes for you_   
_And soon there'll be another_   
_To tell you I was just a lie_   
_And sometimes I wonder_   
_Just for a while_   
_Will you remember me_

_And though you have forgotten_  
 _All of our rubbish dreams_  
 _I find myself searching_  
 _Through the ashes of our ruins_  
 _For the days when we smiled_  
 _And the hours that ran wild_  
 _With the magic of our eyes_  
 _And the silence of our words_  
 _And sometimes I wonder_  
 _Just for a while_  
 _Will you remember me?_  
\-- Tim Buckley

Slayer didn't remember me, see.  Selective amnesia. That's what Andrew called it, when he told me about it a couple years ago, just before that other slayer cut off my hands.  "It's pretty awesome," he said, "how Buffy remembers right around you.  Her subconscious or whatever just fills in the blanks." He paused and then said, "You're the blank."

I didn't really believe him until I went to Rome (with Angel, go figure– years, decades, I did just fine without him, and lately he seemed to be around anytime devastation occurs) and saw her dancing in a club. I'd planned to go right up and grab her and tell her I was back. Figured whatever happened then happened, and I'd deal with it.  But when Angel started that fight (he has learned a bit from me, gotta say, least the pleasure of fists and fangs and sod all else), I got occupied with that, and it took a minute or so of exchanging blows with Angel's selected vermin before I got a chance to look over at her.  And she stopped dancing and looked back at me.

I saw a lot in her eyes. Saw right away she pegged me for a vampire. Saw her assessment of my danger-quotient (insultingly low– not like I was chipped anymore– I could do some serious damage if I wanted to).  Saw her – near as quick– judgment of me that other way (a lot higher, which felt good, because she sure never looked at me that way those last few weeks we were together). Saw her comparing me to the others in the club, and making the connection between the way I fought and the way maybe I'd dance and her decision to come over (nah, not just to join the fight, I don't think– just to join me, maybe ask me to dance).

What I didn't see in her eyes was any recognition. At all.

I kind of stumbled then.  Realized Andrew was telling the truth for once. And then Angel reached out from the mess of bodies and grabbed my arm and pulled me out into the alley.  Problem solved, I guess. Devastation attained. 

Went through the rest of the time in Rome on autopilot. Andrew– a sage now, if only in his own mind– told us both (me and Angel, I mean) to move on.  Angel did, far as I could tell. Me, well, I closed that door. Locked it up.  Four padlocks, three chains, a couple deadbolts. Fought the rest of Angel's fight. Just needed a fight.  Charlie and I went into business of our own after that– (Yeah, so Angel's our major client. Wanna make something of it? He owes us.)  Gave up the chastity routine– didn't make sense, saving myself for a slayer who didn't know I existed.  Had some good times with some good women, and some better times with some bad ones.  Moved on.

But I couldn't miss the World Cup. Not again. Missed it the last time, and the time before that.  But this time, I was between assignments, and had a bonus check burning a hole in my pocket.  So I borrowed Angel's jet (called him from 40,000 feet to tell him I'd borrowed it, and he should ignore the pilot's screams– had nothin' to fear) and went back to Europe. Stuttgart. Not my favorite city, but there was my favorite team, England, winning its matches by some combination of accident and magic. (And two Man U players, plus Becks, the traitor, but all is forgiven since that free kick against Ecuador.) 

As I walked out of the stadium, sticking to the shadows of the overhang, I felt Dru all about me.  Not really– I mean, I'd know if she was about.  And she wasn't. But I felt her glee at England's victory– long-ago glee, from that epic match in Wembley in '66, when England won it all, and we sat huddled under a blanket, cheering like humans.  I felt her around me in this old bombed-out city– she was with me all those years ago, when she looked up and laughed as the RAF dropped its bombs and burned the old town, and I had to drag her away from the fires.

I missed her. Not any chance I'd look her up, not now. But I missed her ... I don't know. Laughter and need for me and –

Forget it.  Long gone. Forget it all. Dru was somewhere else and lost to me forever (as it should be) and England was in the quarters and Buffy didn't remember who the hell I was, who the hell knew why, but there was something in that made real sense, because I was never really meant to be with her anyway. Never my destiny. (Just my desire, but that didn't mean much, right?) Never what she wanted. So maybe given a chance, she'd erased me– couldn't blame her.  I'd forget too, if I had the chance. (No, I wouldn't.)

Best for all concerned. Best for her. Best for me too. Probably.

I slipped into a pub to wait for sunset, and ordered a beer– the Germans do that pretty well, beer– and realized Rupert Giles would be here. It came to me, just like that. He'd be here, just like I was, watching his team, okay, our team.  It was World Cup. No apocalypses to distract him.  Three Chelsea players on the team. (A gross injustice, but there you have it.) Rupert would even be glad to hear from me, as it'd give him a chance to crow a bit about John Terry's play, which I couldn't fault, much as I'd like to.

And he'd tell me Buffy was all right. That this, what did Andrew call it, selective amnesia, wasn't a symptom of something bigger. Couldn't blame her if she'd gone bonkers, given all she'd gone through. Angel'd gone bonkers, slid right into lunacy, and he hadn't gone through half what she did (he always was a drama queen, though). Just needed to know she was fine. If she was fine, except for me being erased, well, fine. Maybe that's what she needed to be happy– Spike erasure. And I wanted to make her happy. Always had. (Well, not back when we were enemies, but even then, I wanted to make her laugh. Usually managed it too.)

So there in the dim booth, surrounded by loud German fans (their team'd beaten Sweden, and yeah, I did my best not to make any sotto voce comments about the Swede neutrality back in the world war, or Nazis, but yeah, sure, I'd been in that brawl after the game, it being a time for all good Brits to stand up for their country and team) (didn't do as much damage as I might have, but enough that I probably ought to being lying low now, just in case anyone was taking pictures)– there in the dim booth, I went into gameface (can see better that way) and peered at my Blackberry (sure, I got a Blackberry– you got a problem with that?), and found my way to the Wolfram and Hart secret database– I set up the hack before I left the States– and did a search for Rupert's cell number. Sure, they had it.  They had his cell number, his office number, his home number, his new galpal's number, and the record of the last 35 URLs he'd visited (nah, no porn– Rupert's such a dull stick– but lots of football sites, so yeah, he'd be here).

Just for the hell of it, I did a quick search for Buffy. Everything about her– or at least all her numbers– laid out in a mini-font on the little display screen.  I slid back into human face, but I could still see all those numbers.  Didn't plan anything. But who knows, maybe Rupert got her interested in football-- The up arrow went up, up past her home number and her office number, right to her cell number.  Highlighted it.  I looked down at the keyboard. There was my thumb on that key.  It moved over to the send key.  Hit it. Not hard. Just hard enough.

I looked at that number, blinking all green and white, and I opened up the hearing channel in my brain (usually have to dial it down, or the noise would drive me mad) and listened hard.  Harder than I'd ever listened before.  Tuned out the Germans singing Eidelweiss or whatever the hell they were singing, dunno, maybe it was Led Zeppelin– Germans can do beer, but rock and roll, no way– tuned out the German announcer on the telly above the bar. Tuned out everything but the ring I heard on the Blackberry– and any echo.  And I heard the echo, nowhere real close, but somewhere around the stadium.  (Don't mean to brag, but vampire hearing is supernatural. Superior too.)

The sound stopped in mid-ring, and I heard Buffy's voice. First time in... well. (You know the last thing she said to me? Didn't believe it. Still don't believe it. But it was a good last thing to say to a bloke.)  "Hello?" she said, in that challenging way of hers, like no one whose number came up labeled "unknown" should be calling her.

Heard her clearly on the Blackberry, and faintly in the air. Radio-free Buffy.  FM-stereo.

I shoved the Blackberry into my pocket, tossed some bills on the table, and left. Wasn't sunset yet, but I held tight to the west side of the street, where the buildings blocked the sun.  I've been doing this for a century or more. Just need the motivation. And that challenging voice– somewhere not too far– was motivation enough. 

The voice got annoyed, and rang off, and I fumbled down into my jeans pocket and felt around till I found redial, and pushed it again, and followed the sound of the ringing, and Buffy's exasperated tone (knew that tone well, didn't I) saying, "You've got the wrong number, buddy, so stop calling me!"

Just needed one more time, three more rings– and got it.  There, just before she hung up without speaking, I found her.  In the shopping district. Of course.  A souvenir shop.  I'd just, you know, glance in and look at her.

See her. That was all.

Okay. So I walked into the shop. Had to avoid the sun slicing through that alley, right?  Just walked in, stood there in the entry. Felt for her. Felt her. She was near the back, her golden hair just a little above the racks of white Germany jerseys.   She had three hats balanced on her head– one England (Rupert's influence) and two US-- and was assessing the result in the mirror. 

I just stood there– didn't have to worry that she'd see me in the mirror– and gazed my fill at her. Well, not my fill. But I stored up that vision of her frowning judiciously at her own image, and I filed it away in that mental database where I kept all Buffy memories (or tried to– they kept falling out and into other spaces in my head). And then I decided I better back out, and I readied myself to do that, got my hand behind me on the doorknob, forced it to turn–

And she stopped with her hand halfway to the hats, and she turned slowly. Sensing me. Sensing a vampire, anyway, specially with nothing in that space in the mirror.  Turned. Slowly. Pulling the hats off, shaking her head, letting her hair wave free. 

She looked straight at me, and took a step towards me, and I remembered too late that I was just another vampire to her.  Dilemma: Out the door and survival. Or another moment with her and a stake in the heart. I let go of the doorknob. Chose the moment. And it might have as well have been a stake in my heart. Destroyed me sure as death. Buffy. Her mouth still frowning. Her eyes.

Her eyes.  I saw it then, what I'd been wanting without knowing. All my hopes.

Recognition.

"I remember you," she whispered.


	2. Chapter 2

"You remember me," he said. It wasn't a question.

I replaced the hats on the hook, never taking my eyes off him. Vampire. Hard eyes. Soft mouth. And I realized I'd been looking for him ever since I first saw him, when I'd been dancing and he'd been watching. Our eyes met and everyone else just faded away. Then I'd stopped looking at him just a second, just long enough to push the hair out of my eyes, and he was gone. And I'd been looking for him ever since.

"You were in that club in Rome," I said. "Two years ago."

Something went out in his eyes. A light. A fire. Just went out like that. I couldn't guess why, because he was still looking at me, and I still felt him. I always felt vampires– that was my job– but I felt him. And he felt me, I knew it. I just didn't know why his eyes were gray now when they were cobalt blue a second before. "That was you, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. That was me."

I'd lived in Britain more than a year now, and I could type his accent. Working class. London. That went well with the threadbare Manchester United t-shirt and the bleached hair. Maybe not so well with the soft mouth and the tentative way he brought his hand to his chest.

He's a vampire, I reminded myself.

He's _him_ , myself replied.

"Let's go," I said, and went to him, and he hesitated for just a moment. I stared up at him, knowing what he was thinking, because I was thinking it too– that this was probably all wrong. But we were going to do it anyway.

He held the door open, and we both glanced up to check the sunlight. I stopped short in the doorway. It would be just my luck to find him– that guy from Rome– and lead him right into immolation.

"It's okay," he said. "Coffeehouse right next door."

With relief I dashed to the next storefront, and he followed more slowly– taking his time, letting me know he wasn't any fledgling, scared of a little sun. He was arrogant and cocky and reckless and stupid too, and I couldn't imagine why I'd spent two years of nights dreaming of him.

The eyes, that was why. And the cheekbones, and the mouth, and the chest. And the way he walked (how had I known how he walked?), like he owned the world, day as well as night. That was why. And because he was mine and he must know it too, because he found me. Out of all the girls in the world.

I didn't have any trouble ordering my double-soy-latte with cinnamon and whipped cream, but his "plain old coffee coffee" took some negotiating. While I waited for him to decide that Sumatran couldn't be all that bad ("they do good hashish," he said, and the barrista agreed), I stared at his profile, and I wondered what he'd do if I reached up and touched his cheek. I knew what he'd feel like– touched a lot of vampires in my day, though usually it was more than a touch– but maybe it'd spook him. I didn't want to spook him. I wanted to keep him.

This was really scary. Heart in throat scary. Hellmouth looming scary. Falling in love scary.

I fell. Jumped.

Now that would really spook him, seeing that in my eyes. So I lowered my gaze to my latte and didn't look up till we were at the iron table and he whispered, "Buffy."

Wow. It kind of sounded like he'd fallen too. Or jumped. The way he said my name–

"You know my name," I said. I tried to sound all stern and suspicious, and next time I try that, remind me not to look at his mouth, okay?

He turned a spoon around in his coffee.(He took it black. No cream. No sugar. He didn't need the spoon.) "I'm a vampire. I know a slayer when I see one."

"But you know my name."

He shrugged. "You're the slayer." That t-shirt was all washed out, and the neck was loose, and the shrug made it slip down on one shoulder. His skin was so pale and smooth. Almost, ah, what's the word? Luminescent.

I aimed for sternness again. Missed by a mile. "I'm not the only one. If you're keeping track, there's–"

I waited, just to see what he'd say, and he didn't disappoint me. "Faith. And Rona. Kennedy. Amanda."

"Amanda's dead," I snapped, and wished I hadn't.

His eyes kind of shadowed, and he said, real low, "I didn't know. Sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Maybe it was," he said, but he only shrugged again when I demanded to know what he meant.

I reached across the table and took hold of the hand that was holding the spoon. It was cool and strong and I closed my eyes. "What's your name?" I whispered. I felt like I ought to know. I knew how his hand would feel before I touched it. Why didn't I know his name?

"Spike."

"That's a dumb name," I said, but I smiled, because I have a dumb name too. "One of those dumb vampire names. What's your real name?"

He took his time. He didn't want to tell me. But I already knew he'd tell me the truth. "William," he finally said.

"What's your last name?"

This made him frown. "Human or vampire?"

"Vampires have last names?"

"Sure. We come from orders. You should know that."

"Okay," I said patiently. Yeah, I remembered some Giles-lessons about the 12 ruling clans of vampires, but really, most of the ones I dealt with weren't the ruling type. Just mutts. "What order are you from?"

He shook his head. "You'd stake me if I told you."

I tried to figure out what order of vampire would make me most stakiest. The Julians were most obnoxiously snobbish (not really sure how I knew that, since I'd never met one– they stuck pretty close to Transylvania, but I must have picked up somewhere they were snobs). But come on. Vampires were vampires. I was supposed to stake them all.

But I'd retired. Today anyway. With him anyway. 'Tell me."

"Not a chance." He was watching me really close, a half-smile on his face. "Oh, here comes the pout. You oughta patent that, Slayer."

I stayed stubbornly silent. It worked. Sort of. He turned his hand over – the spoon dropped on the table– and clasped mine."I'll tell you my human surname."

I let him worry awhile, then I said, "Okay."

He took a moment, like he had to search his memory. "Nelson."

"Has it been a long time since you said that name?" I asked.

"Yeah. About 125 years."

"Nelson." I turned that over in my mouth. "It's a good name."

He said, all arrogant again, "It's a great name. In England, anyway."

"Oh, right. There was some admiral named Nelson, right?"

It was so funny, his scowl. I started to think up ways I could annoy him, just so I could see his mouth get all set and his eyes narrow.

"Some admiral. Yeah."

"You related?"

He gave me a sharp look. "I'm a vampire. He wasn't."

He sure wanted me to know he was a vampire. Like I hadn't noticed. Like I cared.

Okay, of course I cared. Vampires were evil and this one would look this good when I was an old hag. So yeah, it wasn't the ideal for romance. I knew that. Hell, my first boyfriend was a vampire, and my last one (my last real boyfriend– there'd been experiments since) was an immortal of some kind. So nothing new for me, and I knew better than anyone– anyone– what problems come along with supernatural demonic partners. They try to kill you or corrupt you, and in the end, well, you're human and they're not. And I learned the first go-round with Angel that vampire is always going to be a vampire.

But vampire was like the least part of Spike. He was beautiful and he wore a Man U t-shirt and he held my hand like the power of my grip was just fine with him, and he told me his real last name, and he said my name like he already– well. Loved me.

I'd never done this before--fallen in love at first sight, if that's what this was, and it felt like it. Or like I imagined it would feel. Maybe love at second sight– I saw him first in Rome, but you know what? I think maybe then– I felt him hit me, like a fist in the chest. Okay, bad metaphor, I know, but I'm a slayer, and I've been hit a lot more than I've fallen in love. And that was what it felt like. I was dancing and I saw him and he saw me and he looked at me that way– so much longing. Like he knew me and wanted me and – and all the breath went out of me, and then he was gone.

And now he was here again, and you think I was going to focus on that one detail?

Okay. Maybe it was more than a detail. Maybe it was the essence of him. Maybe he was vampire first and Spike second. And William Nelson third.

And maybe I'd really gone around the bend this time, falling for a guy with chiseled cheekbones and blue-fire eyes who just happened to be a vampire. Or maybe I'd just fallen again for a vampire, this one who just happened to have chiseled etc.

Maybe it was him. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was both of us. Both of us drawn to the flame.

"So," I said brightly, "you're here for the World Cup, I guess."

He pulled his hand away from mine and smiled in a way that said he knew why I resorted to small talk. "Yeah. How about you?"

"I came along for a nefarious reason," I said, still pretty small-talking, but at least it was true. "I wanted to make sure someone else took a holiday and had some fun for a change."

"Your watcher," he said. "Rupert Giles."

I stared at him. "You know about my watcher."

He looked back at me, very direct. "I know more about you than you imagine."

Well, that was kind of chilling. Except that his thumb was stroking the handle of his coffee cup, and my attention was drawn to that, and it made it very hard to focus on this stalkerish revelation. There was a silver ring on his thumb. And it caught the light as he stroked–

I tore my gaze away. "You don't scare me."

"I should." He smiled that slow, wicked smile at me. It was sort of thrilling, that smile. He added, "I'm in your watcher chronicles. Killed two of your kind. Decades ago, but won at honorable combat. Killed 'em dead."

"Oh," I said. I wasn't thinking the right way. I should be wary or bent on revenge or something, and instead all I could think of was getting into Giles's volumes when I got home (they still haven't digitized the chronicles, believe it or not, so I couldn't access it on the Web) and searching through to find the full vampire name of the vampire that killed two slayers. And was he single, that was important too. I had to wrench my mind from that to smile right back at him. "I've killed a lot more than two of your kind."

"Don't you worry? Being here with me. That I'll kill you. Or you'll kill me."

I considered this. "Let's not."

He waited a beat and said, "What shall we do instead?"

I got up, and so did he, and there by the booth I put my hands against his hard chest and my mouth against his and kissed him.

He took it slow. I didn't want to – I wanted to grab him and, I don't know, eat him, consume him, make him mine. But he didn't let that happen. He slid his hands down my shoulders to my arms, and held me, and slowly, tenderly, relentlessly, he kissed me. His mouth was hard now on mine, his tongue warm from the coffee, his hands gentle and imperative. We were both breathless when we broke apart, and I stared up at him, and he raised his hand and touched my cheek. "Buffy," he whispered, and he was going to say something else, but then he stopped, and he just gazed at me, and it broke my heart, that look in his eyes.

"Spike." My voice was ragged and unsure. But I made it strong. I took his hand and tugged him towards the door. "My hotel is just down the road. Come with me. Be with me tonight."

He stopped, and it stopped me, and I looked back at him. Our hands were still linked. His face was anguished. "I can't. Not like this. Not again."

And then he pulled his hand loose and headed out the back of the coffeehouse. The door banged behind him, and by the time I ran to open it, all I saw was a shadowy alley. An empty alley.


	3. Chapter 3

Didn't go back to my room. Found another pub and ordered another beer, and kept my eyes fixed on the wide-screen telly, the one that kept playing Beckham's free kick over and over.

But it didn't cheer me. Not now.

Buffy wanted me. Christ.

Didn't remember me, but wanted me. Didn't remember who I was, who I was to her. That I'd seen her die, and helped her come back to life. (I did. Don't let anyone tell you I didn't.) That I'd died (one time) to save her. That I'd almost died another time to save her beloved Angel. That I was Angel's grandchilde. That I was the world's only other souled vampire. That I'd loved her.

No. Didn't want me. She wanted a guy she saw in a club once, a vampire she once saw and didn't slay. That was all. A not-bad looking (sod the false modesty– don't need a mirror to know what I look like) vampire. A soulless vampire, far as she knew. Could be the evillest vampire since Carthaginia, didn't matter to her.

Just someone to complete her demon hat-trick, that's all. #3. And counting. (Probably.)

My cell phone rang– _Twenty-twenty-twenty-four-hours... I wanna be sedated_. I pulled it out and glanced at the display. Her number. Well, yeah. Why not.

I didn't answer it.

I let it go to voice mail. (That way I could listen to her voice over and– Later. Maybe. Maybe I'd erase it. Like she erased me. Easy.)

Then it rang again. All right. Enough. I took it out into the shadowed street and standing next to the pub door, I shook the phone open and said, "What do you want, Slayer?"

She was surprised I answered. Gratified too. Sure, it felt good. When it wasn't digging a stake point into my chest, it felt good.

"Spike." That was all she said. It said a lot.

I leaned back against the brick wall of the pub and took a deep breath. "You got my number."

"I figured out you're the one that kept calling when I was shopping."

"Said you shouldn't trust me. I was stalking you."

"Oh, I'm so scared." Her voice dropped seductively. "Just think. You could come up behind me and–"

For a second there I remembered her sitting on the rim of Giles's bathtub, drawing her finger down her jugular– offering it to me. Just foolin', but I remembered the teasing half-smile on her face, the slow caress of her finger, the seductive purr in her voice. I remembered thinking– not thinking, just feeling– even then that we were meant to be lovers. I remembered that.

Yeah. I remembered. She didn't.

"Yeah. Like any vampire could get the drop on you."

"You could."

Well. That silenced me. For a moment, anyway. "Wouldn't hurt you."

"Wouldn't let you."

"This can't work."

"We could try."

There. Role reversal. Me resisting. Her saying we had a chance.

But one thing hadn't changed. She still didn't know me. Or didn't care to know me. Just wanted me. Been through that once, and once was enough.

"No."

Now that silenced her. But Buffy, she was a champion. Nothing could hold her down long. And she always knew what weapon to use. "Spike, listen. I know this is crazy. But – but I can't let you go. I've been thinking about you for two years, since I saw you in that club in Rome. And you must have been thinking about me, because here you are."

"Buffy–" I started, but she interrupted me.

"No. Listen. Do you believe–" and then I heard her take a deep breath and she burst out with it– "in love at first sight?"

I pressed my temple against the rough brick. Couldn't help but remember– first sight. My first sight of her was in another club– the Bronze. No comparison with that fancy Italian disco in Rome, just a plain barren structure with a stage, stuck in a backwater college town. Just happened to be a few hundred yards from the Hellmouth. Just happened to be where the slayer and her friends hung out. And I went looking for her. Stalking her. Walked into the club, heard that whiny white guy band whining in the background– _I-I-I-I did a stupid thing last night_ – and saw her dancing and knew her right away. The slayer. Golden hair and lithe body and her eyes half-closed like the idiot song really mattered. _I'm one step away from crashing to my knees_.

Love at first sight. Nah. I was still in love with Dru then. (But Dru thought I'd fallen– )

Couldn't have been love.

But all I knew is, I was stalking her because I meant to kill her. And I never fucking did.

"Spike," she said, her voice steely now. "I asked if you believe in love at first sight."

Still resisting. Tried to sound careless. ""Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?"

A considering moment from her. "Is that a real question, or a rhetorical one?"

"Marlowe asked it. Not me."

"Speak for yourself. Don't quote. Answer me."

"Yes," I said, real low. But not so low she couldn't hear me. "I believe in love at first sight."

"Then you can't give up now."

It wasn't giving up. She didn't understand. She didn't know– she didn't remember.

I needed answers. She wouldn't have them. She wouldn't remember them. I said, "Give me a couple days."

"Give me tonight."

You know, I learned it long ago, but I had to keep learning it over and over again. Buffy always fought back. And she always won. "Okay."

"We don't, you know. Have to do anything. We can just be together. Hold each other."

"Sod that," I said.

She was silent just a moment. " _Sod that_ means you don't just want to hold me, right?"

"You got it, pet. In for a penny, in for a pound."

"We use Euros here," she told me. "Not pounds. Come to my suite–"

I envisioned Giles in the other suite bedroom. Not quite ready for him yet. "Nah. You come to me."

"Now."

"Right now."

We didn't ring off. Kept talking till we met in my hotel's lobby. And still talking, still saying something sweet, she came up to me, then she snapped the phone closed, and said my name and kissed me. I was lost. Like usual. But this time... maybe she was too.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal in June 2006.


End file.
